


And Suddenly You Disappear

by lightningwaltz



Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, angsty as hell, crackship is a go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-17
Updated: 2012-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-31 07:47:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningwaltz/pseuds/lightningwaltz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate Universe: Phedre fails to save Ysandre in La Serenissima, and Joscelin dies defending the queen. Afterwards, Phedre and Barquiel are drawn together by grief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Suddenly You Disappear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jesatria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesatria/gifts).



> MOST DEPRESSING AU SCENARIO EVER. I mean I love Ysandre and Joscelin both, what am I even doing? 
> 
> But Jesatria and I were talking about the angsty potential of this alternate timeline, and of Barquiel/Phedre in general. And this fic happened.

Once, in the days of Phedre's youth, a tempestuous Cereus adept had thrown a jewelry box at her vanity mirror. Phedre had not been around for that particular outburst, but witnesses had been all too eager to describe the incident. Her acquintances breathlessly recounted the girl's frustrated cry, the less-then-delicate sound of impact, the shards of grass raining down, and the adept's comically startled expression. 

As though she couldn't believe a single action could cause so much damage.

Phedre recalls that day, all these years later, after her return from La Serenissima. She had sneaked into that adept's room, and the memory of her disjointed appearance in the broken mirror feels far more real than the sight of her present day manor. Through the shattered glass, Phedre had split into multiple reflections. In some places, where the mirror had fallen away, she was not visible at all. 

She feels just like that, lately. As if there are several versions of her, none of them quite whole. As if some parts of Phedre have gone missing; entire pieces of her soul lost to that cave in Kriti, or that bloodstained Serenissiman temple floor where Joscelin and Ysandre had breathed their last. 

*****

The tale of Phedre's imprisonment, escape, and rush back to La Serenissima sounds horribly improbable when spoken aloud. 

So, of course, the D'Angeline's believe it. 

In fact, they seem to believe the story more than Phedre, who actually lived it. They revere her as someone who lived through history, and write poems to add pretty touches where there was no beauty to be found. 

Of a certainity they mourn their queen, truly, and sincerely. She had been young, yes, but clever, stubborn, and battled tested. There was no doubting Ysandre's love for Terre D'Ange. There was no doubting she could have grown into one of the great rulers.

Phedre catches Barquiel L'Envers looking at her once during the queen's funeral. There is nothing accusatory about his glance. He has been avoiding her and today there's a blankness in his expression that makes Phedre's heart sink. 

It takes until the coronation of the new monarch- Queen Bernadette, last scion of a decimated house- before Phedre looks at _him_ , and pointedly holds his gaze.

 _I understand._

*****

When despair threatens to drown Phedre, she goes in search of knowledge. So it's always been.

Like a miser, she holds onto a certain prophecy with all her being. She has been afforded ten years of peace, and she's now in the business of arming herself with information arcane, mundane, historical, and all too recent. There are princes to track down, after all; Tsingano princes, Courcel princes. And in a decade's time Phedre will be prepared to free them from dire magic or dire manipulation. 

She puts it off, puts it off, and puts it off some more, but Phedre knows it's irresponsible to fail to learn Akkadian. 

And who better to ask than the former Akkadian ambassador? 

*****

Still, Phedre's startled when Barquiel agrees. And even more startled when the lessons go for weeks, and then months, with very little incident. She almost wants to smile when he praises her on the accuracy of her accent and her skill with the Akkadian script. Barquiel is... not precisely kind, but somehow she seems to have morphed into an ally, rather than a potential opponent. 

_Would that we could have reached this accord a year ago._

The day following this revelation, Phedre makes a long overdue trip to Kushiel's temple. 

*****

Something makes Phedre proceed to her weekly Akkadian lesson, despite a glaring need to convalesce. Through the haze of pain, she's still adroit enough when it comes to the grammatical structures in ancient epic poetry. 

"Let's discuss something else," Barquiel says, abruptly shutting the book closed. He's speaking in Akkadian and Phedre thinks his voice is strangely beautiful in that language. 

"What do you have in mind?" She responds in kind.

"Were you involved in Melisande's plot?"

Phedre's emotions are still too raw to school herself to perfect diplomacy. She gasps, and can practically hear her heart beating. (Or perhaps those are Kushiel's wings. The punisher of Hell, keeping watch over such a perilous conversation.)

"How can you ask that?" She asks, in D'Angeline. She counts her dead, sees Joscelin's unseeing face, and fights back a sob. " _How_ can you ask that?" she repeats, defiantly, this time in Akkadian. 

"Please, Phedre." And there's something almost vulnerable about Barquiel, that quickly reasserts itself. "I am almost entirely certain of your innocence, but... it's been my experience that people aren't as skilled at dissambling in a foreign tongue. And I need to be sure." 

Phedre tilts her head. She's always been a skilled polyglot, and despite being a novice she can decipher Barquiel's words. And the words behind his words. 

"Also I was there." Still in Akkadian. "You want to know everything about Ysandre death. And you want it to be in Akkadian so that no one in this palace can overhear."

Barquiel draws in a sharp breath. "Elua help me, yes. I want that, too." 

Phedre draws on her compassion, and weaves the well-trod story for him. Somehow it sounds new in this foreign tongue. Her still limited vocabulary leaves for no embelishments, but from watching Barquiel's eyes she can tell he can feel the wind-tossed sea, see the knife sliding into Ysandre heart, hears Phedre screaming over Joscelin's body.

"Well, that's the last of it." Phedre licks dry lips, her words just as dried up. She may never repeat this story again for anyone, in any language. "Am I cleared of guilt?"

"Yes." Barquiel waves his hand, dismissing it, making Phedre believe he had never truly meant his accusation. 

"I am glad to hear it." 

Barquiel's arms are folded on the table, and his expression is distant. "No matter how many languages I study, I find that all of them are woefully inadequate when it comes to expressing the grief. Have you found that to be the case?" 

Phedre presses her hands against her face, muffling a mirthless laugh. "Elua, yes." She rises from her chair, no longer willing to be sitting at this table for a single instant more.

Barquiel mirrors the motion. "Thank you for that, I know that could not have been easy." 

He idly rests his hand on her back, likely not giving the gesture a thought, but it's enough to remind Phedre of the wealth of lash marks on her back. Sharp pain and pleasure course through her body, and she cries out. The following silence sounds like the loudest thing of all. 

The corners of Barquiel's mouth turn up. "While, I'm generally an arrogant man, not even I believe I could induce that reaction so spontaneously." 

Phedre almost laughs, and is surprised to feel tears coursing their way down her face. "Naamah's scion or no, don't flatter yourself overmuch. I went to Kushiel's temple this week. I'm sure you're aware of the rites there." 

Again, Barquiel dons that compassionate and haunted look. "Did you now?"

Phedre turns, and lifts her hair up out of the way. Some of the marks are visible on her neck, and she wants Barquiel to see them. "I would never lie about Kushiel's business, my lord." 

She feels Barquiel undo the laces at the back of her dress, just enough so he can see the wounds in full. "Oh, Phedre," he says, exhaling as he says the words. He kisses her on the neck, just above the torn flesh.

It's enough to make Phedre turn around and press her lips against his. Within moments, they've fallen to the floor, hastily clawing at and pulling away each other's clothes. There's next to no art to this encounter, so much as an undeniable need to crash into someone understanding. To convert words to moans, and transform pain, to pleasure, and back to pain again. When Barquiel's finally inside her, Phedre's back feels like it's being whipped anew as it slides against the floor. She loves that.

This is one of the few times in her life when Phedre's gotten to choose, and that realization recalls a myriad of different reminiscences; a cave blessed by Elua, Skaldi snow, and Joscelin above her.

Phedre closes her eyes tight, scratches her nails against Barquiel's back, and arches violently against him until those memories vanish for the moment. When she climaxes she doesn't say anyone's name, but she does think of Kushiel. 

Afterwards, she distantly feels Barquiel lift her and place her on a couch. She's dimly aware of him rubbing healing ointments on her back. 

"I confess, that was not what I thought sleeping with you would be like." His hands are gentle, and Barquiel's voice is affectionate.

Phedre does not search her feelings at all. That can come later. "You imagined it, did you?" 

She can hear him sigh. "What happens now?" He adds, almost as if to himself. She hates to hear him sound so uncertain.

Phedre turns onto her side, takes his hand in hers, and waits for wise words to come.

"I wish I knew." 

And then, in act even more spontaneous than kissing him, she sits up and pulls Barquiel into an embrace. There's tension in his body, as though he's holding back years and years of grief.

 _I'm here_ , she thinks, _I feel the same._

If Phedre's learned anything over the years, it's that there's no recovering from grief. Such stinging loss sinks into your bones, and your life takes a new shape around it. She also knows that, if you can find someone with whom you can share your pain, the gods have sent you a blessing.


End file.
